In such homelike confidence the hours passed, until at length the moment came which released Yanna from her self-imposed repression and her gracious office of happiness-maker. She had not grudged the effort, and she had not missed the strength and consolation which any healthy self-denial imparts. "Your merry heart goes all the day." Yes, and this truth came from one who knew how much a merry heart may have to carry. But once within her own room she let all go--all her heartache, all her wounded love, and wounded self-esteem. She had hoped, she had surely thought, that Harry would come again; and all that day her ear and eyes had been on the watch. Yes, it had been-- "From rosy morn to evening grey A waiting day; a day of fear, Of listening for a footfall dear, That came not." The watch was over; and she was so weary that she could not weep nor think nor pray. She could only send one tired hope upward, whose whole plea was-- "_Because_ I pray not, seek not, give Thou heed." Now Yanna was built silently on her trust in God, and on the strength of her day's work. Hitherto, her trust in God had been very like that of a child who takes its father's love as easily and carelessly as its daily bread. But her disappointment in Harry had made her cling to the Never-Failing One with more intelligent reliance. Certainly the loss of confidence in her lover and his palpable shortcoming had left her shaken to her inmost being; but she was still erect. No dropping of daily duty! No folding of her hands to weep! No enervating luxury of self-pity troubled this girl, whose feet stood on the rock of Eternal Love, and who had the healthy habit of her ancestors--a frank, unconscious way of doing her household tasks, without incessantly looking after her heart, or making inquiry of her feelings. True, her ear and heart were on the watch for the sound of one step, and one voice; and she would have been most happy if that ache of listening had been answered. But the morning passed, and Harry neither came nor yet sent any message. She dared not hope that the afternoon would be more fortunate, and yet surely, surely, he would not leave her without any attempt to make the future possible. Soon after dinner her anxieties were complicated by a message from Mrs. Wyk, an infirm lady who was related to Yanna by her mother's side, and to whom Yanna was accustomed to render many services. Mrs. Wyk sent a messenger to say that "she had a new novel, and she wanted Yanna to come and read it to her."